Nella Last in the 1950s Read online

  We were home by 6 o’clock. My husband went into the garden and began to talk to the Helms over the fence. I saw his jacket had fallen off the hook – the one he had worn this morning – and as I picked it up heard the rattle of keys. I never know where he hides them. I gladly seized an opportunity I’ve sought for weeks, and like a flash had our Co-op and post office savings books out of the safe and hidden under the carpet and under the settee and the keys back. I’m sure being so worried and nattered over money lately has been the last push to make me so nervy, and it’s no use trying to make him see reason just now. To attempt to argue would only mean a wild nervy outburst. He won’t get hold of these books again. Every penny is my own savings, and we do have to live! My goodness, I never thought I’d have to turn sneak thief to get my own – and to keep the house going at that!* Lately I have felt things get beyond me. I am so glad that Arthur and Cliff will be soon here – they wouldn’t actually ‘interfere’ – Arthur especially has that calm ‘come come now’ that often influences his father.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SUMMER AND SONS RETURN

  May–August 1951

  Monday, 28 May. Just before 12 the post came – a postcard from Arthur in London saying he would be home on the ‘whip’, the last train into Barrow. He must be leaving London at 4 o’clock and have to change into the ‘whip’, which picks up coaches all the way from Liverpool and will be in about 12.30. He said to leave the key on the window sill … A parcel came from Edith and her mother, chocolates and two pound of sugar from the latter, and chocolates and sweets for Aunt Sarah. Edith sent five eggs in a tin and a pound of fresh Irish butter. I thought when I looked at the luxury – unless Edith keeps contact with her very good Belfast and district pals, she is going to feel the pinch over here! I’d a little rest, but had to rise when the coalman came – five weeks since I had any, and today only got four cwts at 5s, and poor looking stuff. Arthur loves new bread. I’d planned my baking so I could make a batch of white bread today, and kneaded it before going off to the hospital for my heat treatment.

  Tuesday, 29 May. I decided as I’d left all ready for Arthur – a little fire with the kettle on the hob, and the table set – it would be best if I didn’t go down. We would only have got talking and he would be tired and ready for his bed, so it was breakfast time before we met. He looked surprisingly well – ‘happiness is a great beautifier’ – and he is happy now he is on his way definitely from Ireland, and knows it’s only a matter of weeks. We sat talking. My husband said he would slip out and get fish for lunch and so he could get fish bits for the cats. I seemed to do little before lunch – soup, small golden haddock poached in milk, bread and butter, a cup of tea and queen cakes – as none of us felt we wanted a heavy meal. We were delighted to hear Arthur was not going back till Friday night, and my husband felt in a good way for driving and said, ‘We will go to Spark Bridge today and see them, and take tea to Coniston Lake’.

  We decided to go to the Lake first, and spent a happy peaceful afternoon talking. Arthur and his father went for a little walk. My foot was a bit bad, so I’d a read in the car and had tea ready when they came back. We took the Primus and boiled water. I’d packed the tea pot, milk etc., bread, butter, a salad, the rest of the potted meat and some shortbread biscuits and crispies. We chattered happily. I heard all about the little boys. Christopher was much better when Arthur left – he seems a darling little boy – and Peter is getting to such an interesting age now he is nearly three. We called at Aunt Sarah’s. Joe has rallied amazingly. He got into the garden to supervise a neighbour who is planting his potatoes. Dear old Joe. All my life, in his shy way, I recall how he helped anyone laid aside – it’s nice to think people are kind to him in return. Aunt Sarah is ‘surprised people have been so helpful’. We didn’t stay long. Heavy thunder clouds gathered and it began to rain heavily and turned cold enough to have the little electric bowl fire on.

  Arthur wrote letters. I did some mending – the years rolled back. It was like old times when Arthur’s head used to be bent over study. He wonders – and hopes – if he will get to Head Office. He would love to be in London. Odd how both the boys should so love London. My father’s people were seafaring people from Woolwich. My great grandfather was captain of a tea clipper. My own father, though born there, came north when he was a baby. Yet his love and knowledge of London was amazing. He used to go on business often, and it was his delight to wander round. It seems as if my two have that ‘inheritance’.

  Wednesday, 30 May. We went on to Walney and sat by the sea. It was wild and chilly, but the air was sweet and I was so glad to sit and hear Arthur talk – we always have so much to discuss. We both love talking about things that have interested us. My husband looks brighter for Arthur’s visit, and though he felt a little tired after cutting the lawn this morning, looked better than he has done for some time … We lingered happily talking, mostly about the children. Peter is an odd scrap. It brought back memories of Arthur – he too was an ‘interesting’ if difficult child. We talked of Cliff. The laburnum tree, ‘Cliff’s tree’, is going to flower earlier this year – generally it’s about the middle of June before it’s at its best. Now Arthur has children of his own he seems to understand so much. Tonight I said, ‘Make the most of your little boys. Love them and give them happy memories, and always the feeling they can turn to you in whatever difficulty or problem arises. You know time flies so very quickly and they may go far away as you two have done. I only pray they may be the delight and joy and purpose that you two have always been to me.’ Arthur has such kindly brown eyes. He said, ‘Amen to that, and may I give them even half you have given to us – they would be blessed at that’. I felt tears rise to my eyes and fall on the pants I was stitching. ‘God gave us our memories that we might have roses in December.’ Few women have such ‘roses’ as I have.

  Tuesday, 5 June. A glorious summer day. Mrs Atkinson laughed at me this morning. She said, ‘This weather seems to agree with you and put you in a better working humour than you have been for months’. I got the washing off the line that had been out all night and soon had more out and put two blankets on Mrs Atkinson’s line, and then got ready to go down town when my husband did. He made an appointment for the X-ray unit for next Tuesday morning. We were a bit surprised to get a note for him to go to hospital next Saturday morning to see Dr Wadsworth. It’s only a month since the last appointment – not that he ever seems much better for going. I paid my groceries and got a dozen eggs, and another pound of sultanas at the greengrocer’s. I got small filleted finnan haddocks and some fish bits, tomatoes, and a very poor lettuce for 9d, and the yellowed cabbage and leeks made me decide to get new carrots, though at 1s a pound – the fact they are going a bit woody made them a dear buy.

  We had tomato soup (purée), haddocks poached in milk, new potatoes and carrots, jelly and cornflour shape,† and decided to pack tea and go on the Coast Road. We took two flasks of tea, milk, cakes and biscuits, cheese, and tomato sandwiches. We were surprised to see so many there – mothers with babies and small children in prams, and groups of young fellows who left early, as if on nights. The sea had begun to go back and left the sands golden in the lovely sunshine. Children frolicked in sun or bathing suits. Happiness was everywhere. No discord of sharp voices. It was as if the sun mellowed and blessed. We came home just before 8 o’clock. Mrs Howson came in with some papers and sat chatting while I got all my ironing done. Her holiday has done her good – she has lost her cranky fault-finding way. I often think there really are no bad-tempered people, only sick, tired or out of tune ones. My husband watered his seedlings. Growing seems at a standstill. All is so dry and the ground hard. I’d a letter from Cliff from Cape Town. It added to the happy feeling the bright day gave me to hear he felt well and was so far on his journey home.

  Wednesday, 6 June. Another lovely day. Mrs Salisbury worked happily – but sang! Her singing has to be heard to be believed. I felt my head begin to throb at the harsh discords – and took t
wo aspirins. Mrs Howson brought two pair of shoes to see if they would fit either Mrs Salisbury or her girl. I felt a gasp as I saw perfectly good shoes – the ‘Joyce’ pair cost 25s to go back to the makers to be soled, and the good brown walking shoes were little worn. They both fitted Mrs Salisbury who said, ‘I am glad of them. I hadn’t a pair of shoes that turned the wet.’ I’m always surprised at Mrs Howson’s lack of thrift and her attitude of ‘grandeur’, and it’s a bit comic when she knows so well I know her and her family so well, and know there was no ‘grandeur’.

  This sunny glare makes my head and eyes ache when I’m out without a hat, and none of my hats have brims shady enough. Any wide brimmed ones I’d seen have been at least £1. This morning I’d a brain wave and got out a parcel of coloured crepe paper I had. I’d only orange and black in any quantity, but thought, ‘Anyway, it’s only for wear in the car or on the seashore’, and as I worked I thought it out and cut 1½ inch strips of both colours and put them with scissors, cotton and a head band of petersham† in a paper bag, and tea and put it in the car – salad and cheese, cutlery and cups, saucers and plates, bread, butter, cakes and biscuits and two flasks of tea. I made vegetable soup for two days, fried bacon and eggs and boiled new potatoes, and we finished with a cup of tea and biscuits. We went on to the Coast Road and I plaited the crepe paper and got the crown stitched before tea. I worked busily. I had no ‘guide’, but knew what I wanted the hat to look like. My husband laughed at the gay carnival colours, but it will soon fade, and anyway vivid colours suit me with being dark-eyed.

  We had tea, and it grew chilly, so we set off for home at 7 o’clock, and most of the people who had gone down by bus were off before. I got my hat finished and it’s really quite nice. The edge of the brim has two strands of black, and one strand is inset. Round the crown is another strand of black with a small twisted bow to finish off. It will serve its purpose – and it cost nothing at all. I may decide to do an all white one if we have a really good summer. It would cost only 2s or so.

  Thursday, 7 June. We were surprised to have our ‘Savona’ fire grate delivered yesterday and a phone call from the firm to say the builder would fix it this afternoon. We went down town shopping, and then to Dalton for the bit of meat – a rough looking bit of Canterbury lamb, best end of the neck – and 2 oz ham. No beef was in when we called. The butcher offered to leave it Friday night, but I felt I wanted to see what I was getting so said the mutton alone would do this week. I heated cream of chicken soup (tinned) and made a salad to the ham, and we had bread and butter, small almond cakes and a cup of tea to finish. The builder had said he would be here by 2.30. I’d a rest when I went to change. My husband said he would take me up to Abbey House, where a party arranged by Mrs Higham of helpers of the trolley service were to be shown round. Then he would come back while the grate was fixed. Abbey House is a huge mansion type of house, built by Vickers Armstrongs to accommodate foreign royalties and the like who were having ships launched that had been built in Barrow Yard. The King and Queen when Duke and Duchess of York once stayed overnight. Later Sir Charles Craven lived in part of it and when he died it was left empty, and ‘useless’, for too much would have needed to be spent on it to split into flats, and they would have been a gamble in a place like Barrow where everyone works and there is no ‘wealthy’ people.*

  Then the town bought it for an old folks home – and everyone gasped, wondering ‘How the rates will stand it’. Today we were left wondering even more. It took a year of direct labour by the Corporation’s staff to paint and renovate it – the solid woodware and parquet floors were perfect and look as if they will be for a hundred years. It has 19 bathrooms, all of which, except two, were in originally. Waring and Gillow supplied the super carpets, settees, easy chairs, linen and bedding and curtains – all of the downstairs curtains are heavy crushed velvet lined with thick silk (rayon). Centrally heated – even today. The kitchens are equipped with every latest gadget for preparing vegetables, chopping and mixing food, everything on the scale of a luxury hotel. We were proudly shown the best quality woollen pants and vests supplied to the men – and union suits† – and the vests and panties or combinations, nightdresses and good woollen dresses of the women. Only one measure had been applied to each and everything supplied – the BEST POSSIBLE. I looked at the poor derelicts sitting round and shuddered as I thought of the many busy happy old people I’d known – a bit of cooking, washing, dusting, knitting or sewing making their days pass. There were none looked happy. I asked the Matron what they did all day and she said in a brittle ‘bright’ tone, ‘Just sit and enjoy themselves, poor old dears’.

  With always living in Barrow, I recognised quite a number of the men, some of whom had been well known hawkers, one a cellar man at a hotel who was reputed always to be ‘half canned’. Two women I recognised as always been regarded as ‘mental’ and when they worked it could only be scrubbing corridors or the like. I tried to imagine what type of person could possibly be happy in such gorgeous sterile surroundings. I felt a wish that was a prayer – that come what may, if I couldn’t like my father get ‘one clear call’ and drop dead, I could be like Aunt Sarah and be able to potter round in my own place, even if it was one room. The Matron, a brittle artificial type who got the position – with her husband – of running the place and were disliked when they were Master and Matron of the one time workhouse, spoke of ‘giving these poor souls a little sunshine in the evening of their lives’. I made a mental ‘gertcha’† and thought of several I knew who would be like fish out of water – that was not allowing for any normal person being merely unhappy with nothing to do but sit round in such splendour. The Matron said, ‘A doctor said it will put 20 years on the poor old dears’ lives’. I couldn’t believe it! I thought, ‘This Welfare State is not only creating a new aristocracy, but making a class of idle poor to replace their old scorn of the idle rich’. I couldn’t but think all proportion has been lost as I listened to the Master saying, ‘This beautiful Home is typical of many others in different parts of the country’, and I wondered deeply where all the money can possibly come from when it takes more and more to buy less and less. There were five bedrooms for married couples – not yet occupied. A few joking remarks were passed about ‘booking one’, and Mrs Higham and I exchanged glances. Later I said, ‘You know my belief that we get out of life what we put into it? I cannot recall ever either doing or leaving undone anything which would merit such a punishment’ – and she understood perfectly what I meant!

  That evening Mrs Howson was ‘shocked at my account of such wanton luxury to benefit only a few “chosen” ones’.

  Friday, 8 June. I had to leave my sewing when, first, an old business acquaintance of my husband’s called, and then one of the WVS members who was there yesterday. Like myself, she had thought the old folks home totally unreasonable. As we discussed it, we were agreed wholly on several points. If it had housed sick, blind or chronically ill people, it would have been a splendid idea. There’s nowhere in Barrow for very sick old people, except the stark Roose Hospital, which was the workhouse up to recent years. She was bitter at such a big staff – eight residents, four domestic day cleaners and two gardeners, besides the two included in the ‘residents’ to look after thirty-one ‘spiv’ types, as she called the poor derelicts. There will be 60 or so later, and more staff taken on. They pay 21s and get 5s pocket money, and the women get their sweets free and the men 1 oz of tobacco or cigarettes. Mrs Smith spoke of the many who wanted to go in, but who had difficulty passing the Committee of four. I stressed the ‘grandeur’ and so sterile aspect, saying, ‘I couldn’t imagine anyone daring to sew or knit or appear to do mending!’

  Thursday, 14 June. My husband wasn’t well. He does and says the darnedest things. It’s a daft way of all the members of the Last family – all the cousins I’ve met have it too. It’s a kind of ‘speak before thinking’ and to one of my rather Quaker upbringing, when you were taught to ‘go and sit down quietly and think it over’
, it’s maddening sometimes, more especially when I’ve so often to straighten things out and explain.

  When Arthur was here he spoke of allowing us a small income when he gets this next rise of £200. I felt flabbergasted when I found out he had only £40 saved, for he has been getting £1,000 a year of late years. He always had a thriftless happy-go-lucky outlook, while Cliff, that wild Arab, could enjoy life to the utmost, yet as he used to say, ‘Thank goodness I’ve got your way of managing, and your fierce pride in always standing on your own, with something tucked away’. Arthur wouldn’t listen to my refusal and said, ‘Look at it this way. If I have it, I’ll spend it. If you have it, you won’t need to spend all your capital, and it will benefit both Cliff and I some day.’ I left it open. My husband thought it a good idea. When I knew Arthur had nothing I said, ‘You must be prepared to buy a house, I’m afraid’, and he said he could borrow most of it from some civil service building fund or other. I had doubts. I said, ‘You would need some proportion of it, but we could advance it’, and my husband was all smiling eager agreement, sweeping aside any of my offers, doubling – no I don’t think actually there was any limit!

  Now when Arthur wrote to ask if an overdraft at his bank could be guaranteed, my husband had such a nervy fit I could have spanked him. He ‘had no money in the bank except £40 or so’, etc. etc. I reminded him he had wildly offered to lend Arthur £500 or ‘as much as you need when you buy your house’. I said, ‘You would have to get it out of the Building Society or somewhere’, but after I’d lost all patience I said, ‘Don’t think any more about it. I’ll get £200 out of the post office and get it paid to Arthur’. It’s simmered for a day or two. Arthur wrote to say he only needed an overdraft in any sudden emergency, and he would let me know. I never felt as glad of anything as that I’d been able to save in the war. I meant it for my Cliff if he came home needing help. But one thing, I’m blessed in them both. They have always had a strong family sense. Arthur always includes my Wanderer [Cliff] in thoughts of the future.